


Six-feet Under

by WasteTimeandType



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Grief, M/M, Mild Smut, Multi, Napoleon is Bad At Feelings, Napoleon's POV, No Actual Character Death, Other, Polyamory, Torture, do i tag the spoilers?, only mentioned tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8946343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WasteTimeandType/pseuds/WasteTimeandType
Summary: “Agents, I have received news.” he said, and Napoleon and Gaby followed him into his small office. He shut the door, and offered a sad smile, which immediately confirmed Napoleon’s worst suspicions. “I’m afraid to say that I believe Agent Kuryakin is dead.”Napoleon Solo thought he was prepared for everything, but the grief that followed from his partner's early death was a phenomena he was ill-prepared to deal with.At least he has Gaby. But working through grief and relationships is hard, and not everything is as it seems.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill to a kink-meme prompt which I can't currently find. I will post a link there when I can.

It was the _wait_. The waiting for news was the worst part of any situation like this; and waiting was quickly becoming Napoleon’s least favourite past time. He was situated just outside Waverly’s office, who had sent a memo for them to be ready to be briefed at around midday. He found himself tapping the chair, the need to do something to help the nerves be quelled. The silence was suffocating, otherwise. Perhaps that is why lllya used to always do it, a reaction to stop his mind being too alone with itself.

Gaby took his hand after a while, holding it gently; the action surprising him so he glanced over to the German woman. “The tapping was driving me up the wall,” she said, softly, not looking at him. He suspected this was because Napoleon had seen her near tears yesterday, and he believed that she was trying not to show how in pieces she was over this whole mess. “Napoleon, I think I understand,” Gaby said. Napoleon raised his eyebrows at her, quizzically, though she was still evading his gaze.  _What did she understand?_   Napoleon couldn’t really reognise her inclinations. But before he could reply, Waverly stepped out of his office.

“Agents, I have received news,” Waverly said, and Napoleon and Gaby followed him into his small office. He shut the door and offered a sad smile, which immediately confirmed Napoleon’s worst suspicions. “I’m afraid to say that I believe Agent Kuryakin is dead.”

Napoleon’s heart stilled. “You are sure?”

“There was no way out of the mines. And, there is no way that a human being could’ve survived the amount of debris falling on themselves. If they did, they would’ve died of oxygen starvation by now.”

Napoleon couldn’t believe it, really. Two days ago, Illya had gone missing. The UNCLE operatives stationed there had stated that there had been an explosion at the mine where Illya had been undercover. Napoleon hadn’t been worried at first; they always got into scrapes, near-death experiences was part of the job. Napoleon remembered when he was feared dead but had come out just fine. But by yesterday, Waverly had seemed a bit green. It was then doubt had started to creep into Napoleon’s mind; he didn’t want to believe it.

“I’m sorry,” Waverly stated, and Napoleon realised that he could hear Gaby sobbing. His mouth felt dry, and he walked over to place his hand on Gaby’s shoulder.

She brushed him off immediately. “This is your fault,” she said, pointing her finger at Waverly. “‘Just a quick mission’, you said.” she stated, her voice cracking by the end, eyes glistening even as she simply tried to stay angry and not fall apart. She turned quickly and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

“She doesn’t mean it.” he said, his own voice struggling to find emotion.

Waverly didn’t reply. Whatever British stoicism the leader of their organisation had, it was mostly still there, but Napoleon could see his eyes glistening. “Dismissed, Solo.” Waverly said, and Napoleon gave him a quick nod and strode out of the office.

He found Gaby in Illya’s office at the UNCLE building, holding a chess set that Illya owned.

“I’m not in the mood for talking, Solo,” she said, thumbing over the chess pieces. Napoleon didn’t reply, merely looking at the office. An office that was now empty. Gaby did look at him eventually though. “Do you really think he’s gone?” she asked.

Napoleon couldn’t reply at first. “I don’t know.” he offered, finally, but he couldn’t deny the feeling that he was going to have to make sure his funeral suit was clean.

* * *

 

The mine was in total chaos. Pits were formed in the ground where Napoleon presumed the mine had collapsed in on itself.

After being told of Illya’s assumed death, the three had travelled to the Ukraine to see the site themselves. The mines, which had been rumoured to be holding stockpiles of THRUSH weapons, were in ruins. Digging equipment was being used to clear much of the dirt from the former shafts, and Napoleon could hazard a guess they still had a long, long way to go.

It pained Napoleon to realise that he’d never even considered the possibility that Illya would not come back. Illya had said that some UNCLE operatives needed someone who pass as a Russian in their mission; that they were having trouble finding the site with radar and needed someone to present themselves as Russian to talk to the suspected weapons dealer, to get into his circle.

Illya volunteered.

It was going to take two weeks, at a guess, and Illya would be back soon enough. They were UNCLE’s premier team, but they’d all taken solo and side missions.

Illya had kissed Gaby goodbye, he remembered that. He’d also said goodbye to Napoleon. “When I return, perhaps you will finally make me the Beef Stroganoff you say you will make.”

“One day, Peril” he’d replied. He’d regretted it now. Illya had complained that the stroganoff available in England was a poor mockery of the stroganoff he loved. Napoleon had joked he could make one to suit the Russian’s tastes for months, but he’d been dragging out the suspense to mess with the Russian. He’d really wished he just made the damn food now, but he mainly wished he’d said something better when they departed. Exactly what, he didn’t know.

“Mr Waverly? We’ve found the body of Agent Johnson.”

Mark Johnson had been in the tunnels with Illya, at the time of the explosion.

Napoleon looked at Gaby, who didn’t seem to be reacting.

Waverly nodded. He left Gaby and Napoleon to inspect the body.

Napoleon looked at the tunnels with Gaby, and briefly imagined what was going through Illya’s head as the mines exploded. Did he have time to react? Time to panic? Napoleon hoped desperately that he was killed instantly. That he didn’t survive to die of oxygen loss, choking on dust, _alone_.

Napoleon, hours later, took it upon himself to visit the body of Agent Johnson. The agent’s skin had been cleaned, clearly, but his clothes were caked with dirt still. He was covered in bruises, a notable gash on his head, indicating he’d died of blunt trauma.

It made Napoleon sick to the stomach to think they were going to pull out Illya like that. So bruised, so broken. So still. He could only look at agent Johnson’s body, and feel pity for his poor parents, probably holed up in their house in Toronto, not knowing yet what had occurred.

Napoleon both wanted to find the body and finish this agony, and never see Illya like this.

* * *

 

“If he is in there- when will we find him?” Gaby asked.

Waverly sighed. They were glancing across at the Ukrainian landscape, a walk in the countryside after a long day of glancing at dirt piles and digging machines. “We don’t know. The mines are vast. It could be in the next few hours. The next few days. Weeks. Months. Don’t worry, we will not rest until we find his body.”

“He could’ve gotten out. He could’ve been captured-”

“Gaby,” he tried to protest, but Gaby just glared at him.

“I do not care, Solo, for your quip at this point.” She snapped, and he didn’t reply with a retort that he was not going to snark or do anything of the sort. It was a whole lot of effort for an argument he wasn’t in the mood to have.

Waverly sighed. “We’re pulling out many bodies, still all THRUSH. They weren’t concerned about getting their own out.” He said. “If we find any indication that there is a passage out, then we will investigate it. Otherwise, I don’t believe it, I apologise Agent Teller.”

Gaby nodded, but didn’t make any sound.

Napoleon wished he knew what to do. He wanted to comfort Gaby, apologise for her loss, but he didn’t know what to say.

* * *

 

It had been five days since Illya’s disappearance, and there had been no sign of a body.

Gaby was seething, pacing around their small hotel room. “Idiots. They’re looking in the same place. They should spread around the mines more.”

“Its easier to clear the debris in one place-”

“I don’t care!” she snapped.

Napoleon sighed. “I want him to be found, too, Gaby.” he stated, trying to get his point across.

“You believe him to be dead, though.” she said.

Napoleon paused. “Yes.” he responded, his voice hollow at admitting it aloud.

Gaby glared at him. “How can you accept it? It’s so easy, this is Illya we’re talking about. He’s strong, he’s tough, tougher than both of us. He can’t just die.”

Napoleon twitched, and bit slightly at his thumb, before pulling it away. “When I went to war, there was many people, better soldiers than I, good men,  _friends_ , who I saw die, people I could never foresee dying,” he admitted. “This situation isn’t that inconceivable to me.” They were in a dangerous business. Just like war, anyone could be taken.

Gaby broke. “He can’t be dead, he just can’t,” she stated, and she collapsed to her knees, holding herself as if in a state of shock. Napoleon walked over to the sobbing woman and began to cradle her. “I just gave him a kiss and told him to come back safely. I always say that; I should’ve said more.”

“He knew you loved him. That’s all he needed.” he responded, gathering her up, his voice cracking at that admission. They loved each other, so much, and it was clear in their obvious affection in how they treated the other. They couldn’t get enough of each other.

Gaby leant into him, stifling her cries. “I never imagined” she mumbles into him.

Napoleon nodded. “Me neither” he said, and he broke. He cried. He hadn’t cried over a death since one friend dying turned into four during the war when he realised that even if they were fighting the winning fight there was still a risk of getting killed. He’d given up on crying, since it hadn’t got him very far. He’d moved through the rest of the war feeling numb, and the sights of dying friends or the bodies of children dressed up as soldiers wearing regime insignia could no longer break him, even if the image did linger in his mind whenever he thought of the war.

And now, he was again crying, over Illya. Someone he knew quite well and for over a year, but not as well as Gaby. His teammate, his  _friend_. An overwhelming grief was present in himself, and it was being poured out. Illya was gone.

Napoleon shuddered, as Gaby stroked him. “Don’t worry. I  _understand_ ,” she said, and she let the tears fall again.

What she understood so much was a mystery.

* * *

 

A week passed, and nothing.

“This is Illya’s favourite time of the day.” Gaby had said. “Just after sunrise. When not many people are about and you can jog in the crisp air.”

Napoleon nodded. “A strange man. God, I hate early mornings.” he jokes, and that was true.

“Same. I’d wake up to an empty bed so often. It hurt a little at first, but that’s Illya.”

He looks to the mines and sees Waverly inspect another body. He shook his head, and Napoleon wasn’t sure if he was happy or not to know that his body hadn’t been found yet. He was also getting sick of looking at all this dirt at the mines.

Napoleon was sure he was sure that Illya was dead. But he couldn’t help but hope, at least a little.

“I should apologise to Waverly.” Gaby said, breaking his train of thoughts. “I didn’t mean what I said. Every mission has risks, I know that, and Illya knows that.”

“I’m sure Waverly understands.” he said, but he had his doubts. He’d seen the man’s eyes, they’d been distraught. They’d became some sort of awful family to the man; rag-tag and weird and generally annoying. But Waverly had always shown them kindness, and Napoleon wouldn’t lie that he didn’t mind the idea of continuing his service to UNCLE after his time was up, at least for a little while. He’d enjoyed the new status quo, which is something he’d never thought he’d say. He’d even stopped his illegal activities.  _Well, mostly._

He wasn’t sure now what he’d do now, without Illya.

“No, I’ll apologise to him.” she said, and she sauntered off to visit the Englishman who was standing near a mine shaft.

He watched as surprisingly, Waverly pulled Gaby into a hug; quick, but tender. Napoleon just wished that these moments of affection weren’t brought about by such circumstances.

* * *

 

Illya’s mother hadn’t been told.

They’d deemed it not fair until they had a body. Still, Napoleon often wondered if Ms Kuryakin was thinking of Illya, right now, and believing him alive and working for his country and the world, and definitely not buried dead in a mine.

He felt the desire to visit the old woman when he deemed it necessary. To say  _what_ , he wasn’t sure. Maybe say that Illya had left an impression of him not normal of any other normal work colleague, perhaps. That he’d think about the Russian most likely every day from now on. That he so, so wished that thinks were different and that Illya was still alive.

He wondered why.

* * *

 

Gaby climbed into his bed one night, nearly two weeks after Illya disappeared.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” she explained, even though Napoleon hadn’t protested as she laid down next to him. He'd also been staring at the wall whilst the darkness surrounded him, as he was now alone with his thoughts. He was mainly running over everything that happened.

“Me neither” he replied. He threaded his hand in hers, warm hands enveloping her dainty but rough ones. Their breathing lulled them into a sense of comfort neither had felt for a while.

Over two weeks after Illya disappeared, Gaby snapped. they were at the mines again, looking at a new place where they were digging. “I'm not waiting here for another month or two to find a rotting body.”

Napoleon looked up from  _The Brothers Karamazov_ he was reading. He knew that Illya had though it to be a masterpiece of russian literature, and had described Napoleon and Gaby in rather disparaging terms when they both said they'd never read the book. Napoleon had taken it upon himself to read it whilst they waited for the body to turn up, reading the rather lengthy book for at least some distraction from the events recently passed. “And what do you suppose we do, then?”

“I don't know.” She said, then paused. “We find them. And then we kill them.”

Napoleon nodded. “The thought has crossed my mind.” He said. He’d imagined many a time, running off and finding the bastard who’d ordered this, but he’d restrained himself. “But something's been telling me it's not a good idea.”

“I don't give a shit. I can't wait any longer.” Her voice trailed off, as if waiting for a response from him. “You must want it, too.” She said desperately.

Napoleon knew it was dangerous to indulge in revenge, knew that pursuing a mission out of emotion could easily go pear shaped as they’d be acting irrationally, knew that this was a terrible idea. Yet, he knew he wanted it, to know that the people who had buried Illya were six-feet under as well.

And if Gaby wanted to indulge in the darkest of desires, revenge; then there was little holding him back.

“Of course I do. Where do we start?”

* * *

 

As far as they understood, Illya had been led into a trap.

Whatever weapons that had been held in those mines hadn't been there for a month. UNCLE had come too late, their intelligence useless and dangerous. When Illya had approached asking of weapons in mines; they knew that he was not a buyer who knew an associate, but that he was an agent with out-of-date information from a security leak. Someone has lead him into the mines, and then things had gone wrong when Illya's ear piece picked up that he was being confronted, and then it went silent. The trackers were most likely stripped from him, tossed at the mine entrance. Agent Johnson went in to give him some backup, but THRUSH spotting Johnson had realised they were most likely surrounded. They'd blown the place up, no matter who inside, to make sure no THRUSH agents would be captured and give away any information.

The head THRUSH weapons dealer Anastas Garin was still at large, clearly, as he had not been the one to take Illya into the tunnels. They knew enough of THRUSH command structure to know that he authorised the detonation.

They would find him.

Waverly refused to authorise the mission. “I understand your intentions, I do sympathise. However, we need to trap Garin _properly_. We think they might move to Bulgaria, where there's another suspected weapons storage. If we trap them there, alive, we might be able to find information about the whole THRUSH weapons operation.”

It made sense, but it wasn’t going to do. Waverly shook his head at their pleadings, and stated that he’d grounded them. “This is three months reprieve. I strongly suggest you two relax for now.”

Waverly was clearly imploring them that they not do anything rash, because they were clearly emotional and going to do something stupid. Three months for grief was more than they expected, and he knew that Waverly had probably had to negotiate with the CIA for him for those months away. It would only serve to make the guilt even worse.

Napoleon had gone to Waverly’s make-shift office near the mines with a lock pick and a guilty conscience. He knew if Waverly saw him stealing classified information that not only would Waverly disapprove of them running into a situation head-on without backup, it was also the most obvious way to get sent back to the CIA.

They didn't care anymore.

He'd brought the papers back to Gaby. “He was last seen in Kiev, at this hotel.” He said, pointing to a photograph. “The trail has gone cold.”

They packed the papers and left that night.

* * *

 

At the hotel, Napoleon charmed a young woman who worked the hotel reception desk.

She was sweet, but constantly seemed nervous, glancing at the door regularly, as if she was apprehensive of someone coming in.

Napoleon cornered her. “Do you know an Anastas Garin?" He asked. The poor girls face went white. She was reluctant to spill, and asked him to leave, repeatedly eventually stating she’d have to get her father to shoo him and Gaby out.

“I can give you an address. Go to it, and tell him Solo sent you. He’ll get you out.” he said, and she seemed interested, the prospect of a new-life away from THRUSH and most likely on the other side of the iron curtain too tantalizing. “But only if you tell us.”

It felt unfair to do this to Waverly, considering they’d just abandoned him to go on their own personal mission. Napoleon pushed aside those guilty feelings when she told him. “I don’t know where he goes, he just often uses this hotel as a base in-between. He has an assistant I guess, who I know lives in the city.”

Later that night, Gaby curled up against him.

“This feels wrong.” she murmured.

“The hugging?” he asked.

“No. This mission. Illya should be here. With us.”

Napoleon felt his heart pang. “Yes.”

Gaby just circled her hand around his. “I’m sorry we never talked before. You were always a friend, but I never allowed us to get close. Not like you and Illya.”

“Illya and I were close because we always found ourselves in the most dangerous situations together. It was actually quite a bad habit. You and Illya had each other. Why on earth would you waste spare time with me?”

Gaby just shifted in her bed to turn round to look at his face. “I would’ve if I’d thought about it.” she said. Napoleon smiled, appreciating Gaby’s statements, but not really believing them. He was just a friend to a couple. They could like him, but he’d never be their equal. The way Gaby was talking, however, is that she wanted something more.

“Gaby, I appreciate you thinking of my feelings but it was not a concern to me” he stated.

“You loved him, though.” she said, softly.

Napoleon felt his breath hitch. “It’s not what you think.” He protested, but he knew he was lying. Illya Kuryakin was not the type of person he’d ever imagined himself falling for, but in reality outside of his own imagination, he had. Perhaps he’d fallen for the Russian giant during all those missions, of getting each other of tight situations, of quiet admissions during the night-time.

It was too late now. Illya was dead, and he’d died _alone_.

That’s what made it painful. No-one had been there for Illya Kuryakin in his last moments. The thought made the pit of grief inside of him never ending, and it probably wouldn’t ever heal and Napoleon couldn’t imagine how he was going to continue day by day feeling like this. He knew he would, Napoleon Solo _always_ carried on, but he wondered if he would be permanently touched by these two people.

Gaby stroked his hand. “I think Illya returned it. He  _always_  looked at you, but he pretended he didn’t to me. I didn’t understand until now, but-”

Napoleon turned away. “Gaby, we’re not having this conversation  _now_  of all things. Don’t speculate. Just, don’t. Please”

Gaby touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just-” she trailed off. “Can I stay?”

Stay in the bed, is what she meant. “Of course.” he said. He needed Gaby, really. They understood eachother, the pain they were both going through. They’d gotten close, and Napoleon wouldn’t deny that he got used to her warmth in his bed. However, he didn’t turn to face her again, as he lulled into a sleep.

 _He looked at you too._  It wasn’t what he needed to hear, really, he could’ve gone to his grave not knowing that. Now, because only he was actually having to face up to his feelings, whatever they may be.

_You loved him._

* * *

 

Gaby shot Garin’s associate dead when he went for a gun. He'd been in awe as she had reacted faster than Napoleon had; not even flinching. He could see the power radiate off her. She had been clearly always made for this role in the spy business, and it amazed Napoleon to remember that she was simply a mechanic before.

They searched his room, quickly, Gaby finding his briefcase under the bed. In it was a multitude of documents and plans.

“THRUSH has let themselves get sloppy.” he stated.

“THRUSH rule only by fear. We gave someone a way out of their fear.” she shrugged, as they left the apartment block.

“Hopefully we’re getting warmer.” he said, as they went into the car. Gaby put the car into drive, and set off.

“We have to be.” she said, as they drove off. “Do you think they found the body?” she asked, and the thought made Napoleon feel sick.

Napoleon shrugged. “Do you think we should’ve stayed?” he asked.

“Waverly wouldn’t have sent us out on this, he’d say we’re too emotional. Which we probably are, but I want to kill him.” she said.

Napoleon realised the numbness had destroyed them both.

A week after their mission began, they kissed.

It had been in bed, again, as it was the only place they could talk, really.

“I’m sorry.” she had said, as they first laid there. “That I upset you before,” she said, referring to their previous disagreement over Illya's supposed feelings.

“I’m not that easily upset.” he stated, but a lack of conviction with the statement was obvious.

She leant into him, and gave him a quick kiss. He barely reacted. He wanted to kiss her, if he was honest, but there was a numbness from the raw loss inside of him. He couldn't fall in love with Gaby. It would feel wrong, taking one of Illya’s happiness's away from him now that he was dead. Gaby pulled back. “I don’t know why.” she said, the tears falling again. “If I could rewind the clocks, you would be with us.”

Napoleon wanted to tell her that she was working herself up over nothing, but he didn’t know how to deny it. He brushed her tears away, trying to clean up her damp face, but he gave in and buried his head into her neck, a few tears leaking out of his own eyes.

* * *

 

Napoleon had always been attracted to both sexes, but he acted on the male desire far less, mostly out of not going to the suitable locations to find partners, and the over-availability of attractive women. Napoleon had always found Illya interesting. The brooding Russian had caught his eye, as he was clearly handsome, but so sweet and gentle under that stoic exterior he liked to think he had.

He remembered when Illya found out about how his ‘perversion’. He’d been trying to seduce a mark, the daughter of a man who was suspected of funding terrorist activities in France, to gain access to a few certain rooms with suspected files in it. However, the daughter had coldly refused any advances, disinterested in him, despite his obvious charm. Her _brother_ , in the other hand, was clearly checking him out, glancing up and down his body. He’d switched targets, quickly allowing himself to be seduced by the brother who thought he was taking in some sort of sexually-curious art dealer.

He’d slipped Illya the brother’s security clearance card before he took him to bed.

“I did not know you were a sodomite.” Illya had said to him, after they had briefed Waverly, who’d raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything to the contrary and congratulated them on a successful mission.

“Such lovely language, Peril. Careful, any more and you might hurt my feelings.” he’d stated, his tone joking but the finely laced threat was there.

Illya nodded. “But you sleep with women?”

“Whatever you’ve heard about people with preferences that extend to men is rather shortsighted as best. This can extend to both genders.”

Illya nodded. “Your life is your life, Solo.” he stated, and that was Napoleon’s confirmation that he didn’t really care that much, if only slightly curious. Trust was not something that Napoleon came by easily; he didn’t trust people that much and others were foolish if they trusted him. But it was clear that he and Illya had it. They’d trusted eachother, and Napoleon knew that Illya wouldn’t use this information against him. Napoleon was even able to indulge himself with other men on occasion, and though Illya would argue against putting himself in a compromising situation, he’d not been sold out.

He contemplated trying to seduce Illya, on occasion, just to see if he could. He even directly offered once, but had managed to cover it up as a joke enough for Illya to simply throw a book at him. Gaby and Illya soon made it official, which meant that Napoleon stepped back. He’d been happy for them, really, and it finally cleared the enormous sexual tension between the other two agents.

Napoleon didn’t know when the admiration and trust had turned into something stronger. He hadn’t noticed when Illya was there.

Now, he would never be able to act on it.

* * *

 

They found the base after following the documents trails. It lead them to a large mansion, near the Russian border.

They’d approached in black, and sneaked in the door. Napoleon sent a few, clean shots into two guards heads.

The mansion had clearly not been used as a house in a long time, the rooms bare and full of boxes of which Napoleon assumed was ammunition.

They walked around the house. “It’s empty.” he said, quietly. There was no noise, apart from the soft sound of leaking water. He walked around, but then he saw something. A square on the ground, with dust settling around the cracks that show how the floor boards did not fit together. A rug was near it, clearly whoever was down there had gotten sick of moving the rug constantly and had discarded it to one side. They were clearly relaxed about not being found.

He motioned Gaby to follow him, and he pulled opened the trap door. It was stiff, but they went down the small ladder. What was in front of them was a bunker of sorts, with large rooms on either side.

A gunshot was heard, and they were immediately met with a THRUSH agent firing bullets. Gaby and Napoleon returned fire, and they immediately saw a few drop. He felt a stinging pain in his arm, and saw that he’d been hit, though it only grazed the top.

“Are you hurt?” Gaby said in concern, when they noticed that all of the guards had been silenced.

He shook his head. “It’s fine.” he said, even if his arm throbbed. “Let’s keep moving.”

They continued through the damp hallways, moving their way towards the end. “Garin is probably not down here.” he said They looked through the various doors.

“They certainly weren’t expecting us.” she said, nudging a dead THRUSH agent with her foot.

As they moved to the end, they noticed a door, and Gaby signaled to him and they stepped through it, guns raised.

Napoleon’s eyes widened.

Anastas Garin was standing there, eyes wide and fearful, holding a gun. But the sight of the man they’d been hunting didn’t surprise him.

It surprised him that Garin was holding  _Illya_ , kneeling on the floor, in a sort of headlock, with the gun pressed to his temple.

“Come any closer and I’ll shoot him.” Garin said, desperation clear in his voice.

Napoleon knew he needed to say something, but he couldn’t find the words. He was completely speechless. He hadn’t prepared himself for this.

_Illya was alive._

Illya looked terrible, blood on his clothes, and various wounds on his face and hair. He looked barely coherent, and it didn’t seem he was even focusing on Gaby and Napoleon in front of him.

“Let him go.” Gaby stated, her voice quivering. Napoleon glanced at her, and it was obvious that she was just as shell-shocked as he was, her hands trembling as she gripped the gun, barely keeping her happiness and rage inside of her.

“I will if I am guaranteed safety. I won’t kill your colleague.”

“Fine. Shoot him, and we’ll shoot you.” Napoleon said, but wasn’t sure of the situation. If he gave his gun up, then Garin might be able to take the upper hand, as it was his gun pressed to Illya's forehead. The bullet would end Illya's life quicker than his.

Garin looked distracted slightly, and completely fearful. Napoleon guessed- though, he didn’t know for sure- that Garin was a coward. Cowards would do anything, which meant also shooting someone, but it did also mean he would happily accept a way out. Napoleon lowered his gun, letting it dangle from his fingers, and held his hands up. “Gaby will keep hers up as long as you keep the gun on Illya.”

Garin nodded, and ever so slightly loosened his hold. Napoleon took the chance and barrelled straight into Garin, tackling him into the floor. The gun tumbled from the russian’s fingers, and Napoleon curled his hand into a fist to punch him in the cheek.

At first, Napoleon was merely trying to subdue the struggling man, but soon he started taking out all his frustration, his punches increasing. The boiled rage and the aching grief came out with a flurry of fists, and he couldn’t hold back.

Illya had been  _here_. Illya was  _alive_ , and had god knows what done to him. He’d been foolish and assumed he was dead, and buried,  _but he’d been alive the whole time-_

“Napoleon.” Gaby said, her hand on his shoulder, breaking him out of his trance and constant hitting. “He’s dead.”

Napoleon glanced at his knuckles, coated in blood, and he grimaced. Garin lay before him, unmoving, his face bloody and broken. Napoleon got up. He hadn’t even known that he’d done this.

He stumbled over to Illya.

“Illya, Illya, _oh my god_.”

Illya cracked his eyes open, his right eye slightly swollen. “You are really here?” he slurred, reaching his inflamed fingers up to prod Napoleon’s face.

It was disconcertingly un-Illya like. Gaby grabbed the small canteen of water he had buckled to his belt, and poured it to Illya’s chapped lips, which swallowed the water gratefully. “Me and Gaby are here, Peril.” he replied.

Illya nodded, and Gaby shifted so Napoleon was using his weight to prop Illya up. He still couldn’t believe it. Illya was alive. The weight of the Russian pressed against him was incredibly surreal, but Napoleon knew he didn’t have the time to be too shell-shocked, though he noticed the slight twitch in his hand. He noticed the Russian’s breath was laboured, his gaze flickering over Illya’s hands; mangled and nails were missing. Torture was obvious.

Gaby touched his forehead gently with the back of her hand. “He has a fever.” she croaked. “But he’s alive.” she stated, as if she could not believe it herself.

Napoleon looked at the exit. He wanted to marvel at the situation they found themselves in, but time was of the essence. “How do we leave? Illya seems too sick to stand, so we’d have to carry him for a few hours. Maybe you should stay here, and I’ll go and get the car.” he said to Gaby. They’d left the car miles away, not wanting to arouse suspicion and they had stalked to the mansion through the fields. This meant leaving Gaby and Illya alone, however, and he wasn’t sure if an alarm would be raised for further THRUSH headquarters.

Gaby pulled on her necklace. “Don’t worry. I have a backup.” she said as she pulled something out of her pendant. It was an item of clothing that Gaby consistently wore, but Napoleon had never analysed its presence until Gaby was brandishing a tiny transmitter. “Waverly told me to use this in an emergency, and an emergency only- telling me that he’d get me out of a scrape, no matter how personal. It was a thank-you gift after Rome. He trusted me.” She said, flicking the switch of the transmitter, which would broadcast their location. “And he’ll come.”

“You didn’t think to tell me this?” he asked, motioning to the pendant.

Gaby shrugged. “This is a lot of fuss, and I hoped I’d never use it. Waverly bringing in the cavalry can make things worse.”

Napoleon nodded, as they turned their attention back to Illya. “You still with us Peril?” he asked.

Illya nodded, cracking his eyes open. “I am not bad.”

“You’re not great either, Peril.” Napoleon said, and Illya merely smiled in return. “Though far better than what we thought.”

If Illya understood what he was implying, he didn’t make no sound to showcase he heard. Napoleon and Gaby held Illya, as they awaited Waverly.

* * *

 

An hour later, UNCLE agents came to get them.

Waverly had looked thoroughly peeved, and had glared a little. “I must say, Solo, this doesn’t seem like much of a mess. Was I really needed for this?” he asked, rather callously. Clearly, running off had annoyed Waverly greatly, so Napoleon didn’t doubt that Waverly was bitter.

When he showed him Illya though, he went as white as a sheet. “I don’t believe it.” he said, as Illya was lifted out of the bunkers.

“Well, neither do we.” he said. The numb feeling that Napoleon had pushed away during the mission had returned, but it was more euphoric than the emptiness he’d previously held. He really couldn’t believe it. He’d been so _sure_ , Waverly had shown them the facts, that there was no way for Illya to survive. And there Illya was, being loaded into a helicopter along with some medics, and Gaby hovering.

Waverly came next to him as they sat into the helicopter. “I was wrong.” he admitted.

Napoleon shrugged. “So was I.”

* * *

 

Napoleon and Gaby stayed by Illya’s bedside. Gaby had taken his large hands into her small ones, gently stroking the hand that was bandaged and splinted, covering his ruined fingers. Illya lay in the hospital bed, hooked up to fluids and an oxygen mask, white as a sheet, but all Napoleon could marvel at was his chest moving up and down.

Pneumonia. Chest trauma. Broken fingers and ruined nails. Malnourishment and dehydration. That was the beginning of the list of all the things that were wrong with Illya, but at least none were considered life-threatening. Illya would wake soon, he was told.

Truth be told, although he desired Illya to wake up, he had no idea what he would say. Things had changed in the last month, and he didn’t know how far, currently.

Napoleon had never been a fan of the status quo, really, but at least that had a sense of certainty and stability when it came to emotional issues. He was the womanizer, and Illya and Gaby were the stable couple. That’s how they’d worked for the past six months. If he could, he’d return everything to before Illya was captured, before he had to think about how he felt, and how his and Gaby’s relationship and developed. It was callous, and he knew he couldn’t go back, but at least it was easy.

Illya shifted. “Illya?” Gaby asked, and Illya’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked around before his eyes opened wide, and he started to shift suddenly, pulling his hand out of Gaby’s grip. “Illya, it’s just us, you’re safe!” she called, trying to take his hand again.

Illya wouldn’t let her, and Napoleon pressed the buzzer for a doctor. “Easy Peril, or they’ll sedate you.”

Illya choked and flinched, and Napoleon regretted his big mouth again, as Illya didn’t stop the look of confusion present on his face. It was clear that Illya was in the midst of some sort of panic induced episode; Napoleon shuddered to think about what he was imagining, what he  _thought_  was real. “It’s just us, this is a hospital. You’re with UNCLE. You’re  _safe_.” he said more slowly this time, hoping that Illya would register the fact, and he looked into Illya's eyes.

Illya seemed to register that fact, finally and then calmed down, as he took in his surroundings. He placed his hand on the IV line in his arm, and looked at the heart monitor, and the oxygen mask on his face. “You were dehydrated,” he offers, and Illya nods in recognition and takes his hand off of the IV line.

A doctor came in, and looked to the man laying on the hospital bed. “Mr Kuryakin, it’s good to see you awake.” Illya nodded, and the doctor took the oxygen mask off him. The doctor began to describe the various ailments affecting Illya, and Illya just sat there and took the information. “You’ll be home within the week.” The doctor said briefly.

The doctor left them to it. Illya didn’t say anything, just sat there. Gaby took his hand again, before saying, “Illya, we thought you were dead.”

“Dead?” he said. “The mine?”

Napoleon nodded. “We were told no way out.”

Illya swallowed, and there was an uncomfortable silence. “I was near the back. THRUSH caught me. The front blew, and they pushed me up through a small opening and forced to crawl through a tunnel, a very small one. The back then exploded. Eventually I came to an opening, and was put in a truck. I think they drugged me. They took me to the empty house and asked questions about UNCLE. I did not say anything.” he stated, and the UNCLE operative near them scribbled most of the information down.

 “We didn’t know you were with Garin. We would’ve tried earlier, god…” he said, feeling the weight of the whole situation still constantly around him.

Illya didn’t say anything. “Do not beat yourself up. I am alive.” he stated, and he offered a smile. Illya was clearly trying to comfort his partners, despite everything. It didn’t lessen the guilt in his body, as it wasn’t as if _they_ were tortured for a month.

Gaby grabbed his hand harder, and then leant into him, the tears falling from her cheeks. “I love you so much.” she choked. “You can’t leave me again, I-” she said, and Illya lifted his arm to pat her on the back.

Illya just smiled. “I do not intend to, chop-shop girl.” he said, kissing her hand in hers,

* * *

 

Illya was allowed home to UNCLE London Headquarters as soon as the pneumonia medication clearly started to work. Illya spent most of it insisting he was fine.

They took a private jet to their headquarters. They each had separate, larger apartments, but they all agreed to stay in the smaller bedrooms at the London headquarters so UNCLE medical personnel could check up on him when they wanted, and Gaby and Napoleon could keep him easy company. Illya was clearly displeased, stating that he could easily take care of his own bandages and medication. “Just because you  _could_ , Peril, doesn’t mean you  _should_.” he’d retorted to Illya’s persistent grumbling.

Illya fell asleep on the plane ride, nodding off. No matter what Illya argued, he'd been clearly affected by the events that had occurred. Torture, for around a month. He hadn’t gone into detail about what happened, but Napoleon and Gaby had been present when he’d given Waverly a quick briefing of the situation inside of the THRUSH complex and what had happened to him.

Nail torture. Sleep deprivation. Water boarding. Illya had stated them all as mere facts, as if it was nothing. “KGB training prepared me for anything.” he’d finished, perhaps noticing Gaby’s and Napoleon’s grimaces.

Waverly didn’t really buy it though, when he’d briefed them upon Illya’s exit from the hospital. “Two months rest. This is a  _holiday_ , Kuryakin. I advise you to take it.”

Napoleon doubted that Waverly could resist Illya’s pestering and would give in to putting him back on the field sooner than that; but at least Napoleon knew that Illya would be here with them and out of danger for a few weeks at least.

Now Illya was asleep on the private plane home, Napoleon simply taking in the sight of a mostly healthy Illya, an _alive_ Illya despite the bruising evident on his face. Gaby stood up from her seat and nudged him. “Do you want me to say something?” she asked, softly, not wanting to wake Illya.

Napoleon looked at her. “What are you on about?”

Gaby looked over at Illya. “You know, about us?” she asked, hey eyes flickering back to him.

Napoleon shook his head. “There isn’t an ‘us’ in a way you’re implying.”

Gaby glared at him. “We can’t go back to the way we were before.” she argued.

Napoleon didn’t meet her eyes, and looked around, searching for his bottle of wine that he’d made sure was in a hand’s distance. “I think you’ll find we can.”

“I didn’t take you for a coward. I thought ‘love’ was your specialty.”

“What you’re implying is more than a simple hook-up with a stranger” he retorted. “Whatever you believed, I think you were mistaken.” It was a callous statement, and he tried to ignore the flash of hurt that flittered across Gaby’s face. He went back to pour himself a glass of wine, signalling to Gaby that he’d finished the conversation.

He noticed Gaby scowling out of the corner of his eye, and she turned and stormed off to sulk in the back of their jet. He didn’t blame her. He hated that Gaby was most probably right and he was a coward. He cared too deeply about these people to take a leap of faith. He hadn’t been in any sort of relationship in so long. He hadn’t been in love, not a true love, ever before. And now he was being hit in the face by the sledgehammer that was his the feelings he had for his two partners. Feelings made everything more complicated, and that’s why he avoided them.

It was rare for Napoleon to not know what to do, but he supposed he had to experience new situations at some point. He would work it out.

* * *

 

UNCLE HQ felt so comfortable yet foreign after weeks out in the Ukrainian landscape.

They’d only stayed all stayed at the headquarters overnight together when they first joined UNCLE, after Istanbul. Napoleon and Gaby both quickly bought separate flats as soon as they could; Napoleon eager for the privacy and the chance to relax without someone watching over him all the time; Gaby wanting to at least fashion somewhat of a home with her new citizenship. Illya had stayed at the headquarters the longest, staying in his simple room and close to any action, but even he eventually wanted his own, quiet space after UNCLE began to expand and the headquarters were constantly busy. He didn’t spend much time in his chosen flat in the end; going to Gaby’s flat most of the time. Napoleon usually just visited Gaby’s flat if he ever needed to speak with either or both off them.

Now they were back in their small, cramped rooms that now had filing cabinets and other such clutter for storage purposes. Dust filled the air and Napoleon found himself sneezing and organising a cleaner for all of them.

Still, it was nice to keep Illya company whilst he focused on getting better. They filled in paperwork and talked to other agents and strategies they could take.

Illya appeared to be doing well. He was moving about, acting as normal. He was still bruised, and his hands were bandaged so he wasn’t doing any paperwork, his hands hurting too much to grip a pen; he was merely advising other agents if they wanted help. The pneumonia had long gone, and he was even back in the gym.

Illya had refused a therapist, and a psychiatrist had eventually given a general ‘pass’ to Illya’s mental state after a week, Illya convincing everyone that he was fine. Yet, Napoleon could see the cracks in Illya’s normal facade of icy control and brimming anger. His partner had been changed by the experience, somehow, even if he’d try to deny it. A week back in London, and he’d merely touched Illya’s shoulder from behind when he was sitting down, and the Russian had struck him straight across the face, knocking him into the carpet.

“You should not creep on me, Cowboy.” he’d stated bluntly as he offered Napoleon a hand to get him off the floor. However Napoleon had seen the flash of panic in his face. Something was wrong.

“If you want to talk about-”

“You westerners always talk too much, as if it can cure all. Nothing to talk about.” Illya stated bluntly. Illya paused, then seemed to soften slightly. “No need for such concern.”

Napoleon wasn’t sure if he believed it. He gathered that Illya might not be 100%, and of course he would be a bit jumpy, but whether or not he would get better on his own was another thing. Illya was stubborn (they were all stubborn, Napoleon realised) and would admit this weakness, this _pain_ easily to anyone, including himself. “Anytime if you want then, Peril.”

Illya smiled slightly. “I know, Cowboy.” Illya then left the room, the conversation left hanging in the air, making Napoleon feel uneasy.

It had been an oddly honest admission, but Illya was never the professional liar that Napoleon was.

Napoleon himself, was doing the same as he always had been, but he knew he’d changed. The status quo he so wished to return to had long gone. For the weeks that Illya had been gone, he’d felt nothing but overwhelming grief and numbness. And now Illya was back in his life, acting the same, but subtly changed. Napoleon hated that he felt his heart pang every time he saw the Russian look slightly fearful; he wanted so much to take the other into his arms, but he restrained himself.

He hated that Illya felt he had to pretend that everything was okay, when it clearly wasn’t.

Gaby clearly noticed the change in Illya as well.

“He’s more distant. Sometimes I see him just staring off into space. He pretends there is nothing wrong.” Gaby sighed, twisting her hair as she drinks the coffee in the London cafe. It had been nearly two weeks since arriving in London. They’d been trying to find a routine of something, all failing so far, as they busied themselves with what Waverly would offer. He and Gaby hadn’t any alone time since the plane, and he could tell she was still sour at his rejection.

“I know.” he responded, thinking back to the strike across his face..

“I’m going to ask to sleep with him again.” Gaby said, but then rolled her eyes at Napoleon’s smirking face. “Not like _that_. Next to each other, it doesn’t have to be sexual. I just want the comfort, and I think he’d benefit from it too,” she said. “He’s here, and I want him next to me.”

Napoleon nodded. “I don’t think he’ll refuse.”

Gaby did nod. “That’s what I’m afraid of. That he won’t say if he does have an issue.”

* * *

 

Slight thumping woke Napoleon up. It sounded like a fight, and Napoleon could easily guess it was actually Illya’s doing; clearly Gaby sleeping next to Illya did not have its intended effect. A rattle on his door brought Napoleon out of his dozing stupor, and Gaby came barging in, and pretty much pulled him to his feet.

“Please, Napoleon, you have to come, Illya was having a nightmare and I tried to wake him, but he lashed out and hit me; and perhaps he recognised me and he felt guilty, or maybe he realised he didn’t need to hit me because I’m no threat, but he’s now he’s moved on to ruining the furniture again. I know it isn’t a problem normally and we usually let him act out, but he’s punching the wall and his hands are  _fragile_ , I’m worried and I can’t get him to stop.” Gaby said, giving a lot of information in a surprisingly short space of time. As he turned the light on he could see a bruise blossoming on her cheek, larger and darker than the one he sported after Illya’s lashing, but not particularly devastating.

He rounded the corridor and could clearly hear the commotion.and entered Illya’s room, and ducked under a flying chair that splintered as it hit the wall. He watched as Illya paced about a bit, before he began to punch the wall.

“Illya-” he said, moving closer and pulling the Russian’s hands away from the wall. He felt Illya push against him, and he lost his grip and tumbled to the floor. Napoleon studied the bloodied hands, Illya had clearly damaged the fractures in his fingers. Illya’s hands were shaking and Illya turned back to the dent in the wall, clearly considering ramming his hands against it again.

Napoleon tackled Illya, pushing him to the ground. Illya grunted and began struggling, and Napoleon received a hard kick to his shin.

“Illya,  _breathe_ , it's just me Napoleon.” he said, pushing himself up off of Illya to show he wasn’t here to cause any harm. Illya did not rise from the floor clearly still angry, yet seemingly allowing himself to calm himself down in the absence of any threat. 

He turned to Gaby, who had her eyes locked on Illya, as she held her chin in a pensive look. “Are you okay?” he asked, gently. Gaby snapped from her daze, and nodded as he gestured to her bruise on her cheek. “The mark? Barely anything” she shrugged, returning to look at Illya.

Illya had taken his hands to his face, and he groaned. “I am sorry. Please leave,” he stated bluntly, not looking at them.

“No, we’re talking about this, Peril,” he said, looking at the Russian “And you need to fix your hands,” he said, noticing the bright red blood seeping through the bandages. Gaby moved over to the Russian, and gestured her arm for him to take. She held her hand out, and watched as Illya looked at it. “We’re not leaving.” she stated simply, her voice firm, and it was obvious that Illya was going to lose this battle. He sighed as he took her hand, and she walked them over to the bed.

Napoleon sat down with them, and grasped Illya’s wrists, turning over the hands. Illya’s hands were bleeding from the knuckles and the finger tips, and he’d clearly re-broken one of his fingers. “I think if we called, the UNCLE medical team would-”

“I do not want doctor. I will sort this myself” Illya cut Napoleon off, harshly. Napoleon pushed the Russian as he tried to step up from the floor to the kitchen, pushing him to the bed and then went to fetch the first aid box. “I will do it for you.” he said, not allowing Illya to protest before he was grasping the wrist again as he set about splinting them.

Napoleon took his time, and Gaby sensed the opportunity. “Would you like to talk about tonight?” she asked him, and Illya looked up from Napoleon’s work. “I had a bad dream. I apologise Gaby. I lashed out; I did not have control.” he said, swallowing his words.

Gaby sighed, and she looked at Napoleon, asking for him to come over. He walked over to the bed. “You can tell us anything. Please, talk to us.”

Illya glanced to Napoleon, and then back to Gaby. There was a long silence, and Napoleon theorised that he was rethinking the torture in his head. “I think it’s fine if we end our relationship.” he stated, the words cutting and formal and emotionless, contrasting to Gaby’s face twisting into outrage.  _Well_ , Napoleon had misjudged this situation, as he let his own mouth gape slightly.

“ _What_?” Gaby asked, clearly angry.

“I am too volatile. And you and cowboy are good fit.” he responded.

Napoleon could see Illya himself looks a little heartbroken, a swallow occurring as he stated those words. Illya was good at acting emotionless when he needed, but he wore his heart on his sleeve really, especially in matters involving Gaby. He could never hide it like Napoleon.

Gaby grasped his finished bandaged left hand. “You misunderstand. I _don’t_ work without you. We don’t work without you,” she said, and Napoleon nodded.

“But, I heard, on the plane- you were talking about your relationship. You were scared to move forward, Napoleon didn’t want Gaby to tell me.”

 _Fuck_. Illya was good at hiding he was asleep. “We weren’t talking about us two specifically,” he said, looking over to Gaby, who nodded. “Like Gaby said, we don’t work without you,” he said, pleading Illya to understand as he finished bandaging the right hand. He took it to his chest. It was a risk, even after all that Gaby had tried to say, but he was willing Illya to understand.

Illya looked up at him and seemed to flush slightly in recognition, but then panic set in. "Cowboy…” he said, slight menace in his voice. “ _Do not mock me._ ”

“Illya…” Gaby said. “Please.” she finished, switching to Russian. “I love you.”

Napoleon turned the injured hand in his hands over gently. “The same with me. I wouldn’t ever make the risk to our friendship before, but I… I love you too.” the words were so unnatural to him, and he struggled to force the words out. “I love both of you.”

Gaby smiled softly, but Illya didn’t react, his face stony. He almost wanted to throttle Gaby for leading him on, but then he felt warm lips to his. He reached his hand up to thread his fingers through the back of Illya’s hair, pressing them closer. It was so close, and Napoleon hadn’t felt like this in a while. He savoured the feel of the Russian's kiss; still a little bit surprised but definitely not displeased.

Illya separated them. “I didn’t think. I have Gaby. I thought-” he said, looking flustered. "I wouldn't cheat, but you were both-"

Gaby moved closer to them. “We all should’ve communicated more.”

Napoleon smirked. “That’s always easier said than done. And I’m great at talking” He said, and Gaby pressed her lips to his. “Yes, because all you do is talk about nothing.”

Illya even laughed slightly. Napoleon didn’t drop his grin, as he continued to kiss Gaby.

They didn’t do much talking the rest of the night. Illya, Gaby and Napoleon moved around each-other, undressing, caressing and touching. It was too unplanned and too late for them to do much more than touching, but it was more sensual and needy than desiring immediate gratification.

Napoleon pressed his fingers to Gaby’s folds, stroking her up and down as she leaned into Illya. She moaned softly, sighing and writhing, as she eventually came. Napoleon grasped Gaby as she moaned, kissing her deeply, savouring her.

Napoleon then moved to slip himself between Illya both rutting against each other. It was quick and messy, both too emotional and too tired to really try anything further, and they soon finished, moaning against the other. It wasn't the best sex Napoleon had ever had, but it was raw, loving, and  _close_.

Their bodies intertwined, they eventually fell into an easy sleep beneath the sheets.

* * *

 

Waking up was a blissful, peaceful moment. Napoleon was laying atop of Illya’s right arm, and he shifted slightly. He looked over to Gaby and Illya, sleeping, and he wondered if he should just settle back down again. It was surreal. He hadn't ever even pictured the scene in his head, and now it had occurred through a few simple words and actions.

Illya turned his head to look at him, surprising him. “I am awake.” he said softly, not wanting to stir Gaby. “You two sleep for a long time. But I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Hmmm.” he said, and looked at Illya. “You could’ve woken us up. Your arm must be dead.”

“It’s fine.”

“Boys, your voices are vibrating across the bed, you’re not being sneaky here.” Gaby said, groaning, moving herself into a sitting position from the previous position of laying on Illya. She cracked herself upright. “I’m going to have a shower. If you two wish to join.” she said, a playful smile on her face.

Napoleon smirked, ready to agree, but Illya froze. “No thank you.”

Gaby looked surprised. “But we have always had showers together.”

“Oh you two, how scandalous,” he commented but looked at Illya’s face for a reaction of some sort. He was clearly trying to remain distant.

Gaby held his hand. “I’ll kick Napoleon out if you’re worried about all of us fitting.”

“Hey-”

“It is not that,” Illya said and looked away from them both. “I no longer need showers.”

“ _Need_?”

A long pause followed, and Illya looked conflicted. “Want.”

Napoleon felt the confusion die away as he put the pieces together. “The water torture.”

Illya did flinch, subtly. “It is now an uncomfortable experience. I prefer just a cloth and soap.”

“Illya, this is what psych is for.”

Illya glared at him. “I do not need psych.  _I will get over it._ ” he stated, his words dripping with anger at the mere thought of it.

Gaby pulled his hand back into hers. “Illya, please. You went through a terrible experience. It’s not like a broken arm.”

Illya clenched his other hand into the bedsheet, but then release it due to the pain in his hands. “I wish it was,” he admitted, and started to shake. “I was sure I was to die. I could feel myself going crazy. I saw you both there all the time, telling me to hold on, but you were never there for real. But, I am not crazy.”

Napoleon felt the bile rise in his throat. “I’m sorry Peril. I was so sure you were dead.” he said. “Gaby tried to argue otherwise, but I was convinced, and I dragged her down too.”

Gaby took his hands. “God, it’s not your fault, it was rational-”

Napoleon shook his head, the guilt still laying there. “I should’ve investigated more at the start, not just accepted it.”

Illya shook him. “Do not be stupid. I saw the mine photos. Total destruction. Waverly and team tried to look at the tunnel I was pushed through, but nothing was left. Would’ve been a hard guess.”

Napoleon merely looked up at the ceiling, then back to Illya. “Yes, you’re right.”

“Do not cry.” Illya said, wiping away the tears that had been unknowingly rolling down his face. “I am here now.”

Napoleon laughed. “Yes, I can see that.”

* * *

 

The hot water was pressed on, and Napoleon stood back into the shower, letting the water run down his face. Tentatively, Illya followed him, but he heard his breath hitch and then quicken, as if he was going to hyperventilate.

Gaby grasped the Russian’s hand. “Breathe, Illya.” she said. It was correct that the shower couldn’t really fit them all, so Gaby stood to the side in the shower cubicle. It was clear that Illya was reluctant to take the shower, but with Napoleon there he eventually agreed. “Look at Napoleon. He’s fine. He’s not drowning, and neither are you.” Gaby said again.

Illya forced open his eyes, and he stopped from entering into a panic attack as he locked his eyes with Napoleon. He leant into Napoleon, as Napoleon washed them both over with a bar of soap, quickly as it was clear that Illya was not relaxing into the water at all. He wondered what it had been like for Illya the first time he had a shower. _Did he panic at the unwelcome flashbacks, then act as if nothing was wrong?_ He despised the idea of Illya being alone through that. “We’re here, Illya.” he said, firmly, trying to cut across any of the memories he was sure that Illya was having. 

Illya swallowed and gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement, and Napoleon knew that he didn’t know what to say, really, and Napoleon was sure that he might say the wrong thing if he was going to say it. Napoleon turned off the water, and they stepped outside, and Gaby wrapped Illya in the fluffiest towel they had. He knows that Illya hates the fuss, really, but Illya was going to receive it anyway.

Illya smiled a bit. “Thank you, my little Chop-shop girl and Cowboy.” he said, his voice quiet, but at least sturdy. It wasn’t really a place to have an emotional conversation, Napoleon supposed, considering they’d seated Illya on the toilet, but it was something, at least. He dried themselves off, and the stepped out of the shower, back to the bed.

"But, what now?" Illya asked, peeling the plastic bags off his bandages. "Can we make this work?"

Napoleon paused. "I'm an expert at these things."

"You were the one who wouldn't make the move!" Gaby snapped.

He laughed, finally feeling foolish with himself. "Details." he laughed, giving Gaby a quick kiss which she eventually gave in to, and they intertwined their limbs.

\---THREE WEEKS LATER---

Waverly glanced at them, not betraying much emotion. “I do not remember signing off on a three-day shopping excursion in Paris.”

They’d returned to his office, this time to receive a harsh telling off. Napoleon grimaced. “Well, we decided that Illya, Gaby and I deserved some retail therapy. It was all charged to my account. I do remember you giving Gaby and I three months leave, if I recall.”

“Well, yes, but that leave was for grief which is no longer applicable, not a celebration, and all three of you were meant to be doing paperwork, not galivanting around the Eiffel Tower.” Waverly said, mildly angry. “If you wanted a holiday, I would’ve allowed it. I prefer to know where my agents are.”

Gaby looked sheepish. “Sorry sir. It was my fault. I wanted some spontaneity, and Napoleon indulged me.”

Waverly tapped his pen against some documents. “And you dragged Illya along the ride, I can guess. You’re both dismissed, and I expect that report on your first year here to be done by this Friday.” Napoleon winced slightly, knowing he wouldn’t be sleeping well soon. They both nodded, before reaching for the door handle. “And you three,” Waverly called, “be careful. I do not want any compromising photos.”

Of course he  _knew_. Nothing ever seemed to slip by Waverly. “Understood, Sir.”

They slipped out the room, and Gaby smirked. “Ah, maybe it wasn't the best idea then.” she said, leaning in to give him a kiss.

“You’re taking first shift on that damn report.”

Gaby pulled away to glare at him, but didn’t stop hanging off his arm as they moved off to the other end of UNCLE headquarters, where Illya came out grumbling. “And how was the session?” he asked.

“Terrible.” Illya grumbled, nerves clearly frayed and dangerous, and indicating that he’d had enough of talking for today. Illya had never came out of these sessions in Psych in a good mood, but Napoleon assumed he wouldn’t, since he was being drilled by a therapist on his torture and emotional wellbeing. His emotional wounds were being re-opened to be healed again. Yet, it seemed to be working somewhat, and the feeling of shame that he knew Illya carried around seemed to have dulled, which was allowing him to start to move on.

“How was meeting with Waverly” Illya asked when they got back to Napoleon’s flat, which had become their primary residence, if only for the size of the apartment.

“Uh-”

“I knew it was bad idea. I only went to keep you two out of trouble.”

Gaby pulled at his hand. “You did a bad job of that.” she said, as she led him to relax on the sofa.

Illya grumbled, and Napoleon set about putting some pans about on the kitchen sides. He saw Gaby and Illya begin to trawl through some documents as they set about creating some self-reflective report on their own conduct, paying him no attention as he set about making them dinner.

He beckoned the pair over, and Gaby and Illya sat down, pushing the meal in front of them. Illya’s lips twitched into a smile. “Beef Stroganoff.”

“Well, I said I’d make it,” he said, knowing he was being smug and enjoying that he could tell that Illya was secretly pleased. He watched as Illya finished the whole plate rather quickly. “It is good. Better than bad restaurants here in London,” he admitted, and Napoleon grinned. “As good as your grandmothers?” he asked.

“No.”

Dinner improved Illya’s mood, as it always did. He began to trawl through the various reports of their previous affairs and missions, ignoring his previous demand for Gaby to do it solo. Gaby wrote it down in some sort of organised fashion. She eventually yawned, and stretched, cracking her shoulders. It was late now, and they should be sleeping soon.

Illya scooped her up and laid her down in the bed. “Sleep, it’s late.” he said, and motioned for Napoleon to come over. “We all sleep.”

“Waverly will be mad if we don’t get it done.” Gaby reluctantly protested as Illya pulled her tights off.

“It will be completed somehow. It is only something so Napoleon’s superiors do not get mad with lack of updates” Illya replied, and they undid their clothes and set about getting under the covers. Napoleon was looking into obtaining a larger bed. His current bed was tight, as though Gaby was small, Illya was large enough to make things uncomfortable for two, let alone three.

They laid in bed, Gaby sandwiched between them. Honestly, Napoleon would've preferred a night of debauchery for themselves, but Gaby was clearly drowsy so he quelled the need to the back of his mind, relaxing into the sheets.

He felt Illya’s unbandaged and healed fingers reach over to his, and he smiled. “Goodnight, my partners.”

“Night, Illya.” Napoleon said, and he let listen to the steady breathing of his two partners, allowing himself to be lulled into an easy sleep, feeling content for the first time in a while.

**Author's Note:**

> I hate the damn title and making titles for fanfictions is the bane of my existence. I might rename it.


End file.
